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The bugles ceased their wailing sound
I saw a poor and an aged man,
THE RUINED COTTAGE.
But other days And other fortunes came—an evil power. They bore against it cheerfully, and hoped For better times, but ruin came at last; And the old soldier left his own dear home, And left it for a prison : 'twas in June, One of June's brightest days—the bee, the bird, The butterfly, were on their lightest wings; The fruits had their first tinge of summer light; The sunny sky, the very leaves seem'd glad, And the old man look'd back upon his cottage And wept aloud :—they hurried him away, And the dear child that would not leave his side. They led him from the sight of the blue heaven And the green trees, into a low, dark cell, The windows shutting out the blessed sun With iron grating; and for the first time
He threw him on his bed, and could not hear
HON. MRS NORTON.
This grave was not yet made;
About the village play'd.
Of all her orphan crew;
She thought, poor Jack ! of you.
And full of frolic glee;
When Jack came home from sea.
And tried his soul with pains ;
And fever scorch'd his veins.
His bright black eye grew dim,
Down by the river's brim ; And first, impatiently, he said,
“ I wish the wind blew free Upon my face and round my bed
Oh, that I were at sea !”
(Though she was not a wreck,) That white-sail'd ship should leave the shore,
And he be on her deck.
He took his mother's hand in his,
And heaved a bitter sigh;
God's will that I should die !
“Remember me to all I loved
And those were all I knew;
The captain and the crew.
And sinking in the grave,
My brothers of the wave !"
Wild storms had met that vessel's track,
And broke the sea in foam ;
Had sail'd in safety home.
Upon that boisterous tide,
The little sailor died !
THE ARAB TO HIS STEED.
Vy beautiful ! my beautiful! that standest meekly by, With thy proudly arched and glossy neck, and dark and
fiery eye; Fret not to roam the desert now, with all thy wingèd speed, I may not mount on thee again, thou ’rt sold, my Arab
Fret not with that impatient hoof, snuff not the breezy
wind, The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind : The stranger hath thy bridle-rein-thy master hath his
goldFleet-limb'd and beautiful! farewell ! thou ’rt sold, my
steed, thou ’rt sold ! Farewell! those free untirèd limbs full many a mile must
roam, To reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds the stranger's
home : Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed
prepare; That silky mane I braided once must be another's care. Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright; Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light; And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy
speed, Then must I, starting, wake to feel—thou’rt sold, my Arab
steed! Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may
chide, Till foam-wreaths lie like crested waves along thy panting
side; And the rich blood, that's in thee, swells in thy indignant
pain, Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each
started vein. Will they ill-use thee? If I thought—but no, it cannot
beThou art so swift, yet easy curb’d; so gentle, yet so free.